Incalescence
by Lucinda the Maid
Summary: [Oneshot] Time on Earth is fleeting, but the warmth of the memories that one leaves behind is always enough to soothe away the pain. [Angel x Collins]


Written for my good friend Mar-Mar. Though this is the first RENT fic I've published on the 'net, I do hope that I've done the wonderful pairing that is Angel/Collins justice. Please enjoy!

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**Disclaimer:** Not mine.

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**Incalescence**

Angel liked to hold on to memories. Even before she'd known that her body was wracked with disease and that her precious time on Earth was limited, she'd cherished everything she experienced. Life was a joy and a journey, something to dance to and breathe in and _love_.

This filled her up and warmed her from the inside out, and Angel _loved_ her warmth.

While she held every memory dear, clutched all of them fast to her chest as though they would flutter away if she loosed her grip, her very first one was most poignant. She didn't know how old or how innocent she'd been, or even if her interest in women's clothing had taken root at the time.

She simply remembered, and that was more than enough.

Large, white arms had wrapped around her, swathed her in a soft blanket and covered her up, a hand brushing her barely-there hair back. While she still can't recall the owner of the arms, she does know that she felt warmer then than ever before.

Because she held so tightly to this memory, kept it locked forever in the chasms of her heart, it spread to fill her with warmth and comfort.

And she longed to scatter that feeling she'd underwent and have it touch people, longed to ease away the coldness of time and melt snow and ice with only a look.

Dressing as a woman gave her the most warmth. Feathered boas encircling her neck and blonde wigs framing her face kept her cozy in the chilliest of storms.

Her attempts to brave them all could not stop heat from spreading its hands over her form, and she longed for it to stay with her forever.

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When she found him, he was shivering.

And more than anything, Angel wanted to cover him up.

Collins, he'd said his name was. Even after learning his first name – Tom – Angel stowed it tight in her box of memories and hardly spoke it, much preferring to call him what suited him best.

In time, "what was best" became "Honey," and Collins never objected.

He could never say no to the woman that had saved him.

On that evening, when the Christmas winds blew snow and sleigh bells sounds into Alphabet City, Collins had collapsed, drenched in blood the color of a Santa hat and coughing as though it was the only thing he knew how to do. He, whose mind was consumed with philosophy, technology, and abstract thought, didn't remember so much about that night.

He did, however, remember praying for a Christmas angel.

And one had found him and kept him warm.

From there, the memories inundated his brain in a flood of warmness and joy.

They'd talked casually at first on their way to Life Support, about love and life and other simple things, and when he fully settled into the comfort she provided, let loose his theory of actual reality. She'd clapped her hands at his defiance and in her joy donned a black wig and spun about in the streets through snowdrifts and sleet.

"That's great!" Collins had said when she told him of her affinity for cross-dressing. "You are truly, as the kids say, 'da man.'"

At his puckered-up imitation of a teenager's face, she'd laughed, slapped his shoulder, said, "Oh, you're such a honey."

Looking back, Collin thinks that it was then that a warmth unlike any he'd ever felt before skirted across him from one shoulder to the next.

It was also then that he began to love her.

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Just before New Years' Day, Angel had bought Collins a jacket. It was a leather one, like the one his father used to wear, worn but certainly not uncomfortable. At first Collins blanched at the amount of money she'd shelled out to purchase it, but Angel's voice sing-songing "Remember Evita!" was enough to placate him.

To Angel, jackets were the ultimate sources of warmth, and she was more than happy to bestow one upon Collins.

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Later that day, it had started to snow. Angel, in a dark skirt and darker wig, had pulled on his hands and bid him to the center of the street. She twirled like a ballerina, her pink rayon scarf swirling, snowflakes sprinkling onto her upturned face.

In all of his years of research and a knowledge-thick life, Collins could have never discovered a more glamorous image.

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Winter passed in a blur of color and fire and heat and love.

In spring the flowers bloomed, and in spite of her allergy to flowers, Angel braved the high pollen count to walk through Central Park each day on his arm.

And then it was summer, and in the height of the heat, the world collapsed.

A crack had formed between Collins' group of friends; Roger had broken and was broken, and Mimi was the shattered mirror at his feet. Joanne made a desperate attempt to reach out to Maureen, but there was a gap between them that had appeared and Maureen, knowing that no amount of reaching could bridge it, had initiated their breaking up. And Mark was lost in the reel of film surrounding him, bearing witness to everything but unable to attest to a single memory.

"It's my least favorite one," Angel whispered to Collins from her hospital bed. Collins removed his jacket, the precious article of clothing he'd come to cherish like Angel cherished her memories, and wrapped it around her, though it would do no good. Her forehead was alternately chill like snow and slick with sweat, and even Collins' heat couldn't reach out to warm her.

And yet she smiled.

"You remind me of those arms," she'd said, without wig and without will, but still so beautiful and _warm_. "My first memory…"

_But please, not the last._

And he held her and kept her warm in her last moments, because as intelligent as Collins was, he couldn't save her from her own disease.

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They buried her on Halloween.

Collins wore a leather jacket, and he was cold.

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For a long time, Collins had wondered how he could cope. Everything had gone to pieces, and he held them in his hands like he had Angel when she breathed her last. No matter the temperature outside, he kept Angel's jacket wrapped about his shoulders, cold but _so, so warm._

Angel had always liked to be warm.

And Angel had always liked to remember.

And so this is what Collins did.

Whether by typing her name in on ATM machines or celebrating Christmas in Life Support, he kept her alive, though her body was dead.

He liked to think she would have done the same for him.

And that thought filled him up with heat, and he kept the memory of her smile tucked away in his heart.

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Whenever he donned the leather jacket after that, Collins would always feel the briefest prick of loneliness somewhere in his chest.

But then it would disappear.

And from the inside out, only warmth would prevail.

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**End fic. **I would love feedback. Reviews are very much appreciated, and feel free to dole out constructive criticism if you feel so inclined. Thank you for reading.  



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